Forging Rings
by AzureSkye23
Summary: Annatar is in Eregion, and beginning to plot. Soon a certain incident with Celebrimbor will set in motion the forging of the Great Rings, and mark the beginning of the plan that will shape the events of Middle-earth for the next Age and a half.


It hadn't worked.

Nimble fingers turned the flawless ring around and around, as Annatar studied his creation. The bright, keen gaze and the restless motion of his fingers where the only outward indication of the quick mind that was mulling over the problem the simple ring provided.

It hadn't totally failed. This ring would be capable of dragging a creature of a lesser will into the realm of the shadows, and allow them to see the unseen. But it was not what he had envisioned, what he had promised Celebrimbor to help create: something that would interweave with very fëa of its wielder, augmenting the natural capabilities of the one who wore it, as well as granting more control over the surrounding environment.

Lost in thought as he was, Annatar nearly missed Celebrimbor's arrival.

"Did it work?" the elven smith asked, a strange undertone to his voice. Annatar, mind still completely on the puzzle at hand, missed it completely.

"No," he answered absently, eyes still on the ring in his hands. "Not how we wanted it to."

A blink was his only sign of surprise as Celebrimbor suddenly snatched the ring out of his hand and started waving it around.

"What do you mean, no?" Celebrimbor yelled, startling all of the other smiths in the forge. Annatar raised his eyes to meet Celebrimbor's, wondering what had brought this on. Failure happened: you learned from it and did better the next time. He tuned out Celebrimbor's rant, in favor of analyzing the elf in front of him. Something in his expression must have clued Celebrimbor in that he wasn't paying attention, because without warning he backhanded Annatar across the face.

Caught off guard, Annatar's head snapped back, sharply striking the wall behind him. Pain flared as sharp edge caught him just behind his left ear. Grasping the small table before him with a white knuckle grip, he turned an emotionless gaze upon the furious Celebrimbor.

"You promised me results," the elf hissed. "Destroy this failure, and come up with a new design: something that will actually work this time." With that, he turned and stalked up the stairs and exited the smithy, slamming the doors shut behind him, and audibly slammed the locks that Annatar had always absently wondered at.

Annatar slowly released the table, looking around. Shock was noticeable in it's absence. The other smiths were uncomfortable, but not shocked. Clearly, this was something that had happened before. Annatar studied his hands for a brief moment: dirtied and covered in coal dust from forging, they were unsuitable for probing the bleeding gash behind his ear. Glancing around, he suppressed a sigh. Clean water they might have, but clean cloth they did not, so any attempt to clean it and slow the bleeding would obviously have to wait.

"I see Celebrimbor has inherited his grandfather's temper," Annatar said to no one in particular, watching the ripples of unease grow as he obliquely mentioned the almost taboo subject of Celebrimbor's heritage. Ignoring the fugitive glances, he walked over to where the innocent looking instigator of this whole indecent was lying. He crouched down to pick up the ring, rather than bending over and risking aggravating his head.

Returning to his forge, he went through the motions of melting down the failed attempt, though his mind was no longer on the task at hand. The blood trickling down his neck was distracting, and fueled the extreme annoyance he was feeling towards Celebrimbor. It wasn't like the gash could kill him: short of severing a major artery there were very few ways he could be robbed of this form by bleeding to death.

What it did was highlight the weakness of his position. Annatar knew he was only here on the sufferance of Celebrimbor, and that did not sit well with the proud Maia. It was something he intended to eventually rectify, but for the moment there was nothing he could do, unless he revealed more of himself than he wished to. With a soft sigh, he turned his attention back to the problem at hand: how to create these rings Celebrimbor wanted.

Pushing his hair out of his face, he grimaced as it left a smear of blood on his hand. He moved to wipe it on his already ruined shirt, but froze as an idea hit him. Blood could be used in forging, to create the kind of connection needed. Annatar turned the idea over briefly in his mind. Blood itself wouldn't work, it was much to specific of a connection. The ring would only work for the one who's blood it contained. But a similar idea might work…

Annatar recalled what Morgoth had done to control and shape Arda. Could doing something similar–pouring his very essence into a ring–work? He unconsciously bit his lip as he thought, staring into the heart of the forge fire. If he had Celebrimbor do the same, and just used a tiny amount of his vast strength, it should be enough to control the elements in the ring to be receptive to the essence of its wielder, and draw and magnify the strength the individual already had. They would have to be wielded by characters of strong will, but Annatar did not see that being a problem. The only downside he could see to this was that it would still be connected to its creators, and vulnerable to manipulation.

Morgoth's former lieutenant straightened and slowly drew in a breath as he realized the implications of that last thought. If he created multiple Rings, to be distributed among the leaders of the various races, and then created a Master Ring, he could control and manipulate the power of the lesser Rings, and by extension, those that wore them. It was simple, elegant, and would solve the problem of his power once and for all. He could pour most of his strength into his own Ring, concentrating and enhancing it. He let the particulars work themselves out in his mind, as he waited for Celebrimbor to return.

It was some hours later when Celebrimbor finally returned to the smithy. The other smiths had finished their work, and were standing in a huddle close to the locked doors. Annatar stood alone, staring into the slowly dying fire of his forge. Celebrimbor fought back a sudden shiver at the sight he presented: covered in blood, a cold expression on his face, with the flames of the fire reflected in his eyes. He fought back the foreboding in his heart, and dismissed the other smiths before taking a single step forward.

"Have you figure out how to make it work?" he asked coolly. Annatar's gaze never left the fire as he nodded slowly.

"I have," he finally said. "Though you may not wish to go through with it."

"What do you mean by that?" Celebrimbor demanded, pride stung. Annatar finally looked up from the fire, and met Celebrimbor's eyes.

"You would have to pour part of your essence, your own strength, into the Ring, to make it respond to your's–or another's–will," he responded calmly. "If you wish to take this route, I would suggest making multiple, as the labor required would be almost worth more than just a single Ring. Also, if the number created has a certain significance, it will ease the process."

Celebrimbor frowned. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. Annatar shrugged.

"For instance, if you were to make a set for your Dwarven friends, seven would be a significant number, as there were seven fathers of the Dwarves," Annatar explained.

"So for Men…" Celebrimbor mused.

"Nine," Annatar responded.

"And three for Elves," Celebrimbor finished. He nodded. "That makes sense. Where will you start?"

"I believe with those for the Dwarves," Annatar said cautiously. "If you will meditate on which attributes most define them, I shall do the same, and create a finalized design idea for you." Celebrimbor nodded again.

"You have a week," he said, turning and leaving. Annatar watched him go, before heading towards his own quarters.

The first thing he did upon arriving in his own rooms was to stir up the small fire, and begin to heat water over it. Next, he lit enough candles to give his rooms significant illumination. His hands were shaking slightly, he noted, from a combination of long hours at the forge and blood loss. When the water was warm, he poured a bit into a basin, and began scrubbing his hands. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he hissed at the messy sight that presented itself.

Hands finally clean, he gingerly probed at the gash in his head. About an inch long, it seemed to have stopped bleeding, though he worried that cleaning it might reopen it. He paused as someone softly knocked on the door.

"Come in," he called, pitched to be heard only by someone who stood just outside the door. The door opened, and one of the few female smiths who worked under Celebrimbor entered. Her name was Elenmíriel, and Annatar had always found her to be a calm, competent individual, as well as being a highly skilled smith.

"You will need help with that," she said softly, shutting the door behind her. "After all, to see behind one's head is impossible, and mirrors are tricky to use when dealing with injuries." Annatar sighed slowly, and nodded, realizing the truth in her words. She set the bandages she'd brought with her down on the small table, and set to work.

"How often does this sort of thing happen?" Annatar asked softly, as she deftly separated his blood soaked hair, pulling the dry strands around to the right of his face, and braiding them out of the way.

"What makes you think it has in the past?" she countered. Annatar smiled mirthlessly.

"Because when it happened, no one was shocked," he replied. "Uncomfortable, yes, but it was obvious that this sort of thing had happened before." Elenmíriel sighed.

"Celebrimbor…" she trailed off as she daubed at the wound. She stayed silent as she finished cleaning the wound. It wasn't until she was carefully applying a bandage that she spoke.

"Oftentimes, when he is deeply involved in a project, Celebrimbor forgets that we are more than tools to be picked up and discarded at will. Or thrown into walls when things don't go the way he planned." She finished bandaging, and began helping him remove the rest of the blood from his hair and neck. "It does not happen extremely often, but it has happened," she finished softly.

They both remained silent until she finished and turned to go.

"Elenmíriel," Annatar called, as she headed out the door. She paused and turned back to look at him. "Thank you," he told her. She nodded, and closed the door behind her as she left.

Centuries later, when he overran Eregion with an army, bent on revenge, he would find her in the square of the city. He grabbed her arm, ignoring her confused and frighted look, and all but dragged her to the nearest stables.

"Pick a horse, and get out of the city," he told her. "Head north, then west." She did as he told her, swinging up onto the back of a grey gelding. He lead the horse out into the square, pointing out a way to exit the city without running into any of his troops. She'd listened, but her eyes had travelled back to where his forces were busy sacking the city.

"Why?" she'd asked him, confusion and sadness written in her eyes.

"You helped me once, now I'm returning the favor," he'd replied, answering only part of her question. "Now go," he'd ordered, slapping the horse on the flank to set it running. It was the last he would ever see of her. He didn't know what became of her, but he did know that she hadn't died in the destruction of Eregion.

But that destruction had not yet been conceived of in Sauron's head as he changed out of his blood spattered clothing. Blowing out most of the candles, he lay on his stomach, rather than his usual position of his back, to avoid putting pressure on his head.

He couldn't get Elenmíriel's words out of his head. _Tools to be picked up and discarded at will._ How was it that an elleth had managed to sum up his entire existence in so few words? That was all he had ever been to those he had served. Morgoth's possession of him had a darker undertone that he didn't wish to consider. _Or thrown into walls when things don't go the way he planned._ He fought back memories of another wall, and burning hands.

Even when he'd served Aulë, that's all he had been seen as, especially as the relationship between Vala and Maia had disintegrated. Valued only for his strength, not who he was as an individual. He had loved his work, true. He enjoyed working with the physical world, and creating beauty out of the raw materials of Arda. But his relationship with the Vala he'd served had never been particularly close.

_Tools to be picked up and discarded at will. _He would go through with his plans to forge a Master Ring. Maybe then, he could stop simply being a tool in others hands, and instead be the hands that guided others. He would create a Ring that would let him rule all.

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,  
__Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,  
__Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,  
__One for the Dark Lord, on his dark throne,  
__In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.  
__One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,  
__One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them  
__In the Land of Mordor, where the shadows lie._

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**Not that it really matters, but yes, this is part of the same universe as the rest of my stuff. **


End file.
